The Quietest and Most Constant of Friends
by Commodore Norrington
Summary: Ruth needs something to read on her commute.


**Update: **I know it's not entirely kosher, but I've updated with a new ending (just one extra line) because the original ending has been bothering me.

**Author's Notes**: Just a silly little idea that came to mind while listening to a certain audiobook recently. :D

This takes place at some unspecified time round about series 4 or 5.

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><p>Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers. ~Charles W. Eliot<p>

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><p>Ruth hummed quietly to herself as she fetched her coat down from its hook. She shrugged it on, grabbing her purse and digging for her keys. The door locked, she dropped the keys back into the bag and set off toward the tube station.<p>

"Oh, damn," she muttered, half-turning back toward the house. But no, she was late already. No time to go back and fetch _Frankenstein_, forgotten on the nightstand. She sighed. It wasn't that long a commute to Thames House, but she did like having something to read on the train.

It wasn't until she was paying for her ticket that she remembered her iPod, buried at the bottom of her purse like the long-forgotten birthday present it was. She fiddled with it as she boarded the train and took a seat, amazed that it still had some battery and wondering if the well-intentioned gift-giver had loaded anything good on it.

There was the usual collection of sampler music, a bit of Mozart, the entirety of _The Nutcracker_, some truly dreadful pop music, and – ah, good, books!

"_Atlas Shrugged_," she murmured. "I _don't_ think. _Harry Potter_, not today…" She continued scrolling through her options.

It was an eclectic mix – she was going mad trying to remember who had given her the thing – but there were a few good choices, including several of the always-meant-to-read-but-never-got-around-to-it variety. She finally selected one and settled back to enjoy the ride.

The warm voice began, "_Tess of the D'urbervilles_, by Thomas Hardy." Ruth frowned, turning up the volume. There was something… "'Poor wounded name, my bosom as a bed shall lodge thee.' William Shakespeare."

It really couldn't be. Ruth pressed buttons and turned the little wheel, trying to find more information about the book. There it was: "Read by Peter Firth". The name was completely unfamiliar, but the voice…

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><p>"Harry, d'you have a minute?" Ruth's voice, as usual, was somewhat hesitant.<p>

"Of course." Harry looked up from the newspaper he was perusing for mentions of the security services.

"I, um, I was wondering," Ruth stammered. "Do you know anyone by the name of Peter Firth?"

Harry's heart stopped for half a second, but he hadn't become Sir Harry Pearce, Section Head, MI-5, by letting his thoughts show on his face. Had it been anyone else, he would have told them 'No' with no hesitation and been done with it. But he couldn't – wouldn't – lie to Ruth like that, at least not about this. Deflection, then.

"Why do you ask?" he returned, his eyes moving back to the newspaper.

"I, er, I was listening to a book this morning," Ruth started. "Read by this Peter Firth. And, well…I mean, that is to say, it sounded very much like…you."

"Did it, now."

"Yes." She paused. "Well, I'm sorry to have interrupted you, Harry. I'll just go now."

"Close the door, Ruth, and have a seat." She did so. "What I'm about to tell you cannot leave this room, do you understand?" She nodded.

Harry leaned back in his chair. "Many years ago, I was on an operation infiltrating a publishing house that we suspected was laundering money for a terrorist organization. During the course of that operation, I was made to record an audiobook. I found that I rather enjoyed it." He looked over at Ruth, who was staring at him, dumbstruck. "We all have hobbies, Ruth."

"I...er," Ruth swallowed. "And the name?"

Harry chuckled. "A bit of childishness on my part, I confess. 'Peter' for Peter Pan, and 'Firth' after John Firth, the cricketer. It's not Giles Farmer," he said with a wry grin, "but I'm not exactly accustomed to creating my own legends."

"How…how many of these books have you recorded?"

"Oh, I don't know," he shrugged. "Five or six. Which one did you happen across?"

"_Tess of the D'urbervilles_," she answered.

"Ah," he smiled. "Probably my favorite. And are you enjoying it?"

"I was a little distracted, to be honest," Ruth replied, blushing.

"Why is that?"

Harry couldn't help being a bit amused by her discomfort. She was staring at her hands now, twisting a small thread she had apparently pulled from her coat.

"You, you do all the little…voices."

It was only with Herculean effort that Harry suppressed a devious grin. _Wait until she gets to the bit with the mooing..._


End file.
